The Russian Affair

  Uncoil your march, my lads!

  Up, Blue Shirts! Storm the ocean!

  Viktor Ipalyevich clicked his tongue, as though he were tasting wine. “No, that’s not it,” he said. He pointed to another poem. Petya got up on tiptoe so that he could see it better. He read,

  I can’t cast off the unmoored boat;

  The shadow’s step eludes my hearing.

  “I like that one especially!” Anna called from the kitchen.

  “You do?” Her father was already in the doorway. “Do you think it would be a good idea to open the cycle with it?”

  Anna dried the carving knife. “No. Too mellow, too playful. For the beginning, you need something militant.”

  “Just what I was thinking!” He disappeared. “Come on, Petya, the fighting poems are on the sofa.”

  Several folders were searched through and the collections With Prometheus’ Hands and Spare Us the Eulogies! taken out. The boy began to read one poem after the other, but his grandfather wasn’t satisfied. “Old-fashioned,” he growled. “The war was still going on when I wrote that.” He nervously ran his hands over the table. “We need … it should be … damn it, I ought to write a new one!”

  Petya yawned and tried to turn the page, but the old man prevented him. Viktor Ipalyevich glanced at the poem skeptically, read it in silence, and laid the page on the table. In the kitchen, Anna listened to his voice:

  Where does Russia begin?

  In the Kurils, or on

  Bering Island, or at

  the Kamchatka Peninsula?

  Russia begins in her goodness,

  her truth, her perseverance.

  There is the source, and it flows

  not from her mountains

  but from her great works.

  Friend, it flows from you!

  Anna waited for his commentary, sure that he’d find something to criticize here, too, but silence reigned. Then she heard Petya jumping on the sofa. Curious, she turned the water off and stepped into the room, where she found her father standing with his hands on his hips and gazing down at the poem. “Not bad, I have to say. After so many years, still … not bad.” It had been a long time since Anna had last seen him smiling as he was at that moment. “Petyushka, this will be our first poem,” he said, nodding thoughtfully, as though his own judgment were not absolutely trustworthy. “Come on, we’ll put it in a new folder.”

  He received no answer. The boy had curled up among the papers like a puppy and fallen asleep. Anna wiped her hands off, picked up Petya, carried him to the sleeping alcove, and undressed him.

  “I’m going to see about getting a new curtain tomorrow,” she said, touching the place where the culpable curtain had formerly hung. Her father was sorry that he would soon have to put an end to all sound and movement in the living room. On tiptoe, he continued his journey through his own verse. The two of them, father and daughter, performed an odd ballet: Viktor Ipalyevich stepped mincingly to the radiator, while Anna dodged him in order to bring Petya to the bathroom. When they returned to the room, her father retreated from the sofa and let her pass on her way to put the boy to bed; then she went to the kitchen, where she turned off the light. Viktor Ipalyevich was going through a bundle of papers, his back to her, as she undressed and threw on her nightshirt. Then she slipped past him and sat down in the alcove.

  “We did right to throw away that dusty thing. I believe Petya started sleeping better already last night.” She gazed at her son, who’d wasted no time falling asleep again; his head rested on a freshly washed towel, which Anna, in accordance with Doctor Shchedrin’s instructions, had spread over the boy’s pillow. “Would it bother you if I did a few more things in the kitchen?”

  Viktor Ipalyevich didn’t lift his eyes from the pages before him. “Of course not,” he said. Seeing him so happy and hopeful gave Anna a satisfaction she had long gone without. She glided barefoot over the floor.

  It had been only a week since Dubna, but her impressions of the place were already fading away. The ice race on the Volga came into her mind. She thought about the fork-tongued orphanage director, and about Adamek and his pipe. Would Nadezhda and her Irkutskian ever hear from each other again? As for the scientific achievements she’d been granted the opportunity to marvel at, Anna scarcely gave them a thought. In retrospect, it was hard to comprehend the time and effort it must have cost Alexey to smuggle her into the atomic city. They had been together one evening and one drowsy afternoon; wouldn’t they have been able to accomplish that more comfortably in Moscow? And why doesn’t he get in touch with me, she thought fretfully. She had something of great importance to tell him. During the morning shift, while she was perched high up on her scaffolding, Anna had decided to make a full confession to Alexey; he must know everything. It would be up to him, and not to Kamarovsky, to decide how things would proceed. As she was loading a trowel with mortar, this solution had suddenly seemed utterly simple to her, and the freedom of her decision had made her completely euphoric.

  From an inner corner of the sleeping alcove, Anna watched the poet as he gathered his folders together, made sure that he was also bringing tobacco and liquor, and disappeared through the kitchen door. With the velvet curtain gone, Anna could hear all too clearly every sound coming from the kitchen. Her father banged open the ashtray’s metal lid. When he struck a match, it was like a whiplash. She turned off the light and got under the covers. Since Petya was taking up most of the bed, she lay on her side. Was she just telling herself that he was breathing more freely, or was it actually the case? Tomorrow, she’d continue the cleaning operation. Now that she knew the cause of Petya’s suffering, she saw dust traps everywhere, in every cushion, in the window curtains, in the tablecloths. From now on, she’d sweep the floors and wipe off the windowsills every day and dust the radiators once a week. How wonderful it was that her boy was not terribly sick but only allergic; she felt capable of overcoming his affliction by dint of her own efforts, and it was a good feeling. She curled up her legs and intertwined them with Petya’s little calves. From the kitchen came the breathy murmur of her father’s whispering:

  He ended up a thousand versts deep into foreign territory,

  Where a bullet struck him down.

  Anna was surprised at how much there was to know about dust. For example, she’d discovered that dust wasn’t as dry as it was reputed to be; in fact, dust mite larvae throve best in a moist atmosphere. She’d learned that dust was indifferent as to whether it lay on cheap or costly material, but that expensive velvet welcomed dust and therefore dust mites, whereas cheaper synthetic fabrics hindered the proliferation of the little beasts. Leather was an enemy of dust, and wool offered itself as a hatchery. In winter, the mites procreated more slowly, because the air was so dry. Soon, however, when the temperatures were rising and water returning to its liquid form everywhere, breeding season for the dust creatures would begin.

  The next afternoon, Anna incurred her father’s displeasure by opening the window in the living room for several minutes. “Stale air can lead to mildew formation,” she declared, repeating a principle enunciated in the book that Doctor Shchedrin had given her.

  Not for the first time, Viktor Ipalyevich watched loose pages of his poetry fluttering around the room and sent Petya chasing after them. He was putting up with the dismantling of his familiar surroundings, but in his view, the comfortable living room had already been stripped bare. At the moment, his daughter was cleaning the back side of the radiator; she’d tied a brush to a long stick and was on her knees, stubbornly scrubbing away. After her return from the early shift, she’d taken an old toothbrush to the spaces between the floorboards, removed the newspaper from the broken window panes, and covered them with plastic film. Now, as she was about to take down the wall rug, he voiced his objection: “That’s enough!”

  “I’m going to put it in the cellar.”

  He pointed to the homely piece and asked, “How long does it have to stay in exile?”

  “U
ntil Petya moves out of here,” she answered vaguely.

  “I gave you that rug as a wedding present. The pattern of interlocking circles was supposed to be a symbol of your enduring love.” Viktor Ipalyevich insisted that the rug should remain where it was until a substitute wall adornment could be found.

  Showing that she was ready to discuss the matter, Anna asked, “A picture, a map, a poster?”

  “Something beautiful! There’s nothing left in this apartment worth looking at!” With outspread arms, he gestured toward the dust-free wasteland around him.

  “I’ll think of something,” Anna said. Then she turned her attention to pulling out the first of the nails that fastened the rug to the wall.

  “The rug stays there.”

  “For Petya’s health!” she cried out.

  “Petya’s temperature is back to normal, and his eyes are clear.” Anna’s father took up a position in front of the wall rug, as though he meant to defend it. “By the time the spring’s over, he’ll be playing soccer!”

  Anna decided not to defy his prohibition. After all, he was right: Shchedrin’s diagnosis was proving to be accurate, the medicine was starting to work; she simply couldn’t believe in Petya’s miraculous transformation, not yet. She’d become cautious insofar as good luck was concerned. Anna put her tools in a box and stowed it under the kitchen sink. In the living room, her father turned on the television.

  “… The crucial aspect of matter is not its materiality, but the fact that it consists of a number of miniature processes that stand in mutual reciprocity with one another.”

  Anna straightened herself and pricked up her ears; she knew that voice.

  “Matter does not ‘be’—it happens.”

  Where had she heard that sneering inflection before? She was in the living room in two steps—and she hadn’t been wrong. The program was The Open Ear, the woman who hosted the show was moving slips of paper about, and across from her sat Nikolai Lyushin, casually dressed in a suit but no tie. Anna stretched out her hand in surprise.

  Viktor Ipalyevich raised his head. “It’s some physicist,” he explained.

  Lyushin’s name appeared in a graphic. In her next question, the interviewer mentioned the atomic city. Anna crouched down beside her father.

  “Do you know him?”

  “I may have seen him in one of the institutes.”

  Lyushin told the interviewer about a research study undertaken by colleagues from Vietnam and the German Democratic Republic, working under his direction.

  “Vain fop,” said Anna’s father. “Will you look at how affected he is? Watch him reach for his glass. He’s positively basking in his own significance.”

  That word vain opened Anna’s eyes. Vanity. Lyushin was good-looking, intelligent, and witty, but his vain attitude negated everything else.

  “Overbearing jackass.” Her father stood up to change the channel.

  “It’s almost over.” She wanted to watch the rest of the interview.

  Leaning with one elbow on the television set, Viktor Ipalyevich remained still. The interviewer regretted that her time was just about up. Lyushin seemed indignant at being ushered out so soon. “You referred to the enormous amount of resources that a complex like Dubna swallows up,” he said, interrupting his hostess. “Let me assure you that the fundamental research will pay for itself. In my Institute, we have assembled the greatest collective of theoretical physicists in the world. Because one thing is certain: There’s nothing more practical than a good theory.” He smiled into the camera and tossed his hair off his forehead. Then, quite concisely, the hostess thanked him. The program’s theme music drowned out her closing remarks.

  “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen such a popinjay,” Viktor Ipalyevich said, changing the channel. Some light entertainment program was announced, and he sank back into his chair. Anna remained silent as she stepped to the window. In Dubna, Lyushin had impressed her as an eccentric genius; in the television appearance she’d just seen, he’d exposed himself as a narcissist. Strange, she thought. Logically, you’d figure someone whose profession required him to look into the very deepest parts of things would be a profound person himself. On the television screen, a pop duo, tightly entwined, sang a hit tune.

  FOURTEEN

  Anna’s patience was tried for six days before the Deputy Minister contacted her. During that period, she cast aside her decision several times, mostly at night, when the reasons for her proposed course of action seemed dubious. She told herself that Alexey would repudiate her as soon as she revealed the whole truth to him. But by day, her plan regained strength. Alexey was a tactician—wouldn’t the possibility of a double game appeal to him? Deceiving Kamarovsky was what frightened Anna the most. He gave her the inexplicable impression that he was omniscient. Hadn’t he expressed his benevolence toward her by the pardon—no other word would do—he’d procured for her father? Anna had the impression of moving through a minefield. The feeling that had gradually come to predominate in her was revulsion at her double-dealing. Alexey treated her obligingly, affectionately, and he seemed sad and sometimes lost. There was nothing in his character that justified Anna’s betrayal of his trust.

  Surprisingly, the location he chose for their next appointment was not his apartment but the Proletarskaya subway station, near a busy marketplace and the bustling Volgogradsky Prospekt. Alexey’s message was so spontaneous that there was no time for Anton to pick her up; Anna had to take the subway.

  “Things are difficult at the moment,” Bulyagkov informed her by way of greeting. He was wearing his jacket open, a rare thing for him to do, as he was always fearful of getting a cold. “The Twenty-fourth Party Congress is pure chaos.” He pointed to a narrow passage behind the station, and they went toward it.

  “The leadership opened Pandora’s box when they raised the minimum wage. If they institute the new rate in Central Asia, the comrades in the Far East will want the same thing. If we yield to them, then we’ll have the Kazakhs and the West Siberian raions on our necks.” He took Anna’s arm. “Kosygin knows that, of course, but he’s ready to screw everything up for the sake of his pretty balance sheets. And so he appeals to every department to see whether it can make still more cuts and save still more money!”

  The unusual location of their rendezvous and the short notice she’d been given unsettled Anna, and so did the Deputy Minister’s chattiness. He seemed merry and nervous at the same time. Before they reached the market, they passed a group of young men who were standing around a monument. Each of them was looking in a different direction.

  “Shall we?” Alexey guided Anna toward the group. As he’d expected, they were selling books, which were spread out on the monument’s pedestal. While Anna merely glanced at the covers of the books, Alexey rummaged around in them with obvious pleasure. For the most part, they were works of tsarist literature, their ornate leather bindings inscribed with golden letters, along with books by ostracized authors.

  “Well, what do you know …” Alexey said, brandishing a small, well-thumbed volume: Freedom Comes Naked. Grinning with pleasure, he opened the book and showed Anna a photograph of a considerably younger Viktor Ipalyevich. “These people act as though they think your father’s some kind of forbidden, esoteric figure.” He handed the book to her. “Here, it’s a gift.”

  She accepted, letting him have the pleasure. He complained about the price to the vendor but was unable to reduce it by so much as a kopeck. When he reached for his wallet, he discovered that he’d forgotten it and waved to Anton, who was hovering about unobtrusively.

  “I don’t much like taking you to such a place,” Alexey said. “But believe me, Annushka, this is the only way we could see each other.”

  A furious hissing interrupted him, and he leaped aside in fright. Anna laughed; a gander was flapping around the Deputy Minister. The fowl, attached by one leg, was yanked back in midflight and landed on its belly. It screamed and stuck out its pointy tongue. Suddenly, as though some
magic had transported them to another world, Anna found herself surrounded by hundreds of animals. Just ahead of them was the cat section: predominantly newborn kittens curled up in cardboard boxes.

  A boy noticed Bulyagkov’s searching look and sprang over to him. “These are all house-trained,” he declared, opening the sales dialogue. He lifted up a cat’s tail with one finger and proudly pointed out that the animal was a first-class tomcat. Bulyagkov waved him off. “Black cats with white checks are rare,” the boy said, determined to hold on to his potential customer.

  “I don’t need a cat.” Alexey declined the invitation to pet the animal and pointed over to the market’s main alley. “There,” he said to Anna.

  First they had to walk past hundreds of dogs. A litter of Ovcharka puppies was crawling around the sawdust-covered bottom of a crate; only their drooping ears bore any resemblance to the full-grown sheep guardian. Black terriers barked. Smiling, Bulyagkov indicated a basket with Tsvetnaya Bolonkas, which were on offer in four different colors. Their owners extolled the value of their wares: “The tsar’s lapdog,” they said.

  The air was filled with puling and whimpering, and the vendors’ stands were surrounded by Muscovite women on the point of yielding to temptation. Every cardboard box belonged to a cute little girl who swore she’d let her darling puppies go only if they found a good new home. In the next section, ornamental fish stared out of plastic bags, and a mountain of squirming worms awaited the next fishhook. In the end, when Anna and Alexey were simply surrounded by howls, whimpers, and the frantic beating of wings, he explained to her the reason for this visit to the market.